The Flood: It’s happening now.

IMG_0888It started on Saturday when something inspired me to watch Anne of Green Gables. Still in my pajamas, I had no agenda, the whole day lay before me and I was missing my sister. To be honest, I was a little bit surprised at how much I missed her. I lit a stick of incense, slipped the DVD into the thingamajig and proceeded to bawl for the duration of the film.

Anne Shirley the orphan girl fell under the enchantment of the Avenue and the Lake of Shining Waters as Matthew Cuthbert drove horse and buggy home to Green Gables.  As she tucked her arm into Matthew’s with a painfully innocent trust, her eyes were brimming with open anticipation of a new life. I think my tears began to well up at that moment of tenderness. Her raw, naked hope animated her face for all to see.

Once the mistake became apparent  that the Cuthberts had wanted a boy, not a girl, Anne cried out, stricken, “You don’t want me? I should have known – no one ever did want me!” Well, then the floodgates opened and I was pretty much lost in the terrible longing of Anne Shirley , totally invested in her journey and cause as she found her way into the hearts of the established village on Prince Edward’s Island, ultimately  finding a true family, true friends, and a true home. She was forever on the lookout for kindred spirits.

Nothing to be done. I miss my sister. I miss the childish, innocent times we spent playing games together, pretending at make believe, tending to litters of kittens and decorating the Christmas tree. Once I beaded a fantastic Indian bracelet – she showed me how. Early times before the illness started, before the suffering began.

I hear her voice in my heart these past few days, reassuring me. When I think I’ve messed up, or made a mistake or fallen short of expectations that are mostly self imposed, I see her face, tsk tsking me, saying, Oh, it’s alright, it’ll be alright. You did good. You did fine. Don’t worry so much.

I hear her saying I’ll always be your big sister. I hear her in my heart more clearly than I did when she was living. Am I being haunted? Is it simply what I wish she’d say? Is her soul somehow blossoming on the other side of who knows what and God only knows where, up out of the mud into the clean clarity of transcendent love, and that love, it is speaking to me, calling to me, clear as a bell?


Will this happen to each one of us? Will this happen to you and me, when we pass from this physical plane? Our true spirit, shining through the muck and mire of flesh and passions and disease and petty complaints? Making ourselves known more truly to the ones who love and remember us?

This is what I guess. This is what I imagine. And the flood of emotion. It’s happening now. The missing her. The loving her. I’m crying but I am also glad.

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About reneetamara

Writing about death, mental illness, spirituality, art and perfume. Because beauty feeds the soul, and love is beyond what we think.

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